Possession
by SoraOokami12
Summary: One-shot smut. Moriarty/Sherlock. Some BDSM.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Oh, and please review! I'm a new author, so I need all the confidence building I can get. haha_

**Possession**

It was the third time this week. His usual call out to John, "Phone!" stuck in his throat when he felt the small cellular device vibrate in his coat pocket. Sherlock had seen the disgusted look cross John's face when he read the first two to him. He heard the tension and struggle in his voice. John assumed Sherlock would feel the same way towards the small words printed on the screen. His grey eyes would meet Sherlock's expecting an empathetic look. Sherlock would present it, but he didn't feel the malice John did.

He explained his feelings as respect, curiosity, or even excitement of having someone on the same level as he. But something didn't fit right with each of those. He was too eager for those rare texts. Those dark brown eyes haunted him too much, but not in the slightest threatening way. The way he thought about how that suit fit that slim body so perfectly was more than just respect. Unlike everything else that catches his attention, Sherlock desperately dismissed these thoughts and filled his mind with whatever else he could, no matter how menial.

_How's the ketone experiment coming? I trust that John is no longer reading your texts for you?_

_JM_

Sherlock snorted. He almost felt embarrassed that it would take him until the third text for him to have John stop reading them…and that Moriarty knew it would. The first two were harmless. Of the same sort – "What are you doing? Not that I know. Fluorine can be tricky." and "Try chlorine next time." Now this one. He seemed keen on Sherlock's chemical experiments, he never commented on anything else.

_Superbly. He is not._

_SH_

First time he's replied. Short, concise. Nothing that could be beneficial to him. After he hit send, he just looked at the blank screen. When John spoke, he almost jumped. Guilt? Surely not. "Tea?" Always with the tea.

"No," he replied as he buried his thoughts of JM and brought his mind back to the experiment at hand. Hours passed. He'd already synthesized several aromatic compounds when he felt it. A reply.

_Obviously. I enjoyed our evening the other night. The look on your face when you saw your beloved John strapped to blow, you pointing a gun at me; it all had me in chills. We need to meet._

_JM_

Ah, to the point. Sherlock's heart rate elevated by an increment of ten, which he found troublesome. He glanced up to John who was sitting in his chair, reading a newspaper and sipping another cup of tea. Serene. Nonchalant. Perfect. This is not want he wants. In his hand he held the potential of chaos. Excitement. Not boring.

_Yes._

_SH_

Minutes passed and this did nothing to calm his newly discovered anxiety. He convinced himself it was because it was an invitation to catch the man who is tied to almost every major criminal action. It would be insight. An opportunity handed to him on a silver platter. Those brown eyes looked at him in his mind's eye. The next text sent him an address. He knew it. Mayfair district. Luxurious hotel. The corners of his mouth were turning up in a smile before he became aware of it. He quickly masked it when he caught John's curious glance.

"Finished with the experiment?" he asked, looking at the phone then to Sherlock's abandoned instruments.

Sherlock followed his gaze, then answered unceremoniously, "Going out." He snatched up his coat and scarf quickly and just barely heard John's question of where he was going as he shut the door to the flat. In a second he had a cabbie asking the same thing, and this time he answered. The back of the man's head didn't notice the small waver in his voice.


	2. Chapter 2

Here he was, hesitating. Sherlock doesn't hesitate. He is always certain of his movements and actions. But now, now he wasn't. He didn't know what he wanted, or what he expected. He had avoided the thoughts for so long. They remained unanswered. Sherlock was standing in front of the hotel room's door. Head almost bowed as he contemplated. He was right, of course. The hotel was grandiose in every way. Seemed nearly cliché for a criminal mastermind to be stowed up here. Life of crime seemed to have its perks, Sherlock noted as he thought of his own living arrangements.

Heart was beating too fast, breathing was uneven, palms were slick, stomach tense. What was happening to him? The threat that behind this door is the man who is undoubtedly going to kill him one day if he doesn't kill him first? Now he was trembling, this is unacceptable. He closed his eyes, focusing on his body, desperately trying to calm it. He didn't have the time. Sherlock's eyes flew open when he heard the click of the door opening. He received a surge of adrenaline when his sympathetic system kicked in at the sight of a danger.

There he stood, face-to-face with Jim Moriarty. He was decadent, to say in the least. He was slightly shorter than Sherlock, but his confidence made this fact absolutely moot. He was wearing a suit very similar to one Sherlock last saw him in. Slim fitting, expensive material. The tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck. First few buttons of his silk shirt were unbuttoned. This was all done surely to knock Sherlock off balance.

It worked.

His mind immediately raced to thoughts of running his hand along that smooth material, completely unbuttoning the shirt to reveal the man's torso. Then he wondered if he would use the tie to strangulate Sherlock. This did not cause the appropriate response. This thought hovered in his mind when he met the dark man's eyes. They glinted almost inhumanly, the smirk that crossed his face appeared devilish. Everything he had deduced about Sherlock was confirmed in those few seconds he watched him look him over.

"Get in," he ordered the taller man as he opened the door slightly more. Sherlock hesitated again. This would be his very last moment of escape. Though both of them knew the only direction he was going was into that overly-priced room. It was confirmed when the lock was slid in the door to Sherlock's back after his feet took him inside before his mind had a chance to have a say so.

Sherlock was inside the lion's den. His body knew it, though his mind almost refused to acknowledge this. Part of him wanted to scan the room for weapons and means of escape while the other wanted to face that sexy man and be stripped down. Savage, either way. He long lost track of his pulse, breathing was nearing erratic. He felt the man's presence behind him. So close, so threatening. He could feel his breath on the side of his face. His breathing was regular, maybe even slightly elevated. This was unnerving. Sherlock nearly out of control and Moriarty calm. That longing in the pit of his abdomen was almost demanding now.

"Remove your clothes." These words felt like straight electricity along his nerves, all converging in the same place. Hesitation. His mouth drew near Sherlock's ear when he growled, "Now."

Sherlock tentatively removed his scarf, followed by his coat. Moriarty was in front of him now. Dark eyes absorbing him. They gleamed with possessiveness, but his demeanor seemed almost negligent to the fact that there was even another person in the room. He turned his back as Sherlock began to remove his shirt. Right as Sherlock let the fabric fall to the floor, Moriarty spun on him. "Do _not_ throw it in a heap," he glared, "This is not your flat. You are not at home here."

He froze. This is how it was going to be, and it thrilled him beyond anything. Sherlock bent down and picked up his discarded clothing. He folded them and gently placed them on a chair. He glanced up at Jim for his approval, but he had become disinterested. He was shuffling through items in a drawer. Sherlock thought about asking, then thought better of it. Didn't think it was his place to speak.

The sleuth's long fingers began to fiddle with his belt. Sherlock observed the quick glance Moriarty threw his way when he heard the sliding of leather, even if he didn't want it to be noticed. He took off his trousers. His erection was now more than evident with only his thin shorts as a barrier. He suddenly felt exposed and indecent; he should cover himself. But this is what the brilliant criminal wanted. For Sherlock, of all people, to feel vulnerable.

He folded to the pants and set them with the rest of the clothing. Another hesitation. Sherlock wonders to himself if he did this on purpose. To see what he would do if he did not obey. Either way, the effect was more than satisfying.

"Are you frightened Sherlock?" Moriarty spat as he finally made eye contact with Sherlock. He could see the excitement in his face. He stood up straight and meticulously walked towards the tall figure clad in only his shorts. Seeing Sherlock's think muscular frame, his breathing had certainly increased. His carnal need was tearing at him, and Sherlock knew it.

"Are you afraid of little ole Jim? What he might do to you?" He was close now. His breath was on Sherlock's bare shoulder as he tilted his head towards him, not touching. "Do you really think your shorts are going to save you now? Take them off. Your impudence isn't helping your situation." He backed off, and Sherlock did as he was told. He could almost see him salivating at the sight of Sherlock's completely naked figure. Tall, pale, sinewy. Something he could easily control with his own sturdy frame.

It happened in a second. Moriarty had him pinned against the wall before he even realized he had moved. The criminal had his clothed body pressed firmly against Sherlock's bare back. Sherlock's arm was twisted almost painfully behind him, and it was stuck between them. The detective was about to fight back, thinking that he had made a horrible and incorrect deduction about the circumstances. Moriarty really was going to hurt, maybe even kill him. His heart raced and muscles tensed. But his words, his words had the opposite effect. They told him to stay, that there is nothing more he could ever desire than to be in the room with this mad man.

"The things I am going to make you do," Moriarty laughed a laugh absent mirth, but more malevolence. "God, you are going to dance; you are going to _please_." Sherlock could feel the heat from the shorter man's arousal despite the layers of clothing separating them. He wanted to be closer to this. He wanted to really feel him. He cursed the clothes for the obstacle they were.

"To start, get on the bed. On your hands and knees, ass in the air. Go."

Sherlock did his bidding without question. Hand and knees on the soft extravagant mattress. His own erection dangling below him. Exposed, even more exposed than before. Moriarty had him like this for several seconds. Then he spoke. His words ran through Sherlock like fire. "Now you're going to touch yourself for me. You are going to beg and moan for me. You understand?"

Oh the indecency, the complete humiliation of such an act. All he wanted was to feel Jim close to him, but he has denied this at every chance. He truly wanted Sherlock's submission. And he was going to oblige because he knew how this was going to end. Moriarty will give him what he so desperately needs.

Sherlock brought his hand to himself and began to slide along its length. He shuddered at the sudden contact, even if was just himself. He wasn't sure he was going to be able to bring himself to let out a moan until he heard it. Moriarty let out his own groan watching Sherlock get off this way. It was undeniably unintentional, but he heard it and his inhibitions were broken. He glanced back to Jim who was leaning against the wall watching Sherlock with every ounce of his attention. His erection now noticeable through his dark trousers as his hand drew close to it. Dark eyes were half-lidded and mouth partially open. Yes, Sherlock had his attention.

The thin man let out a whimper that slowly grew to a groan. His hand began to quicken, and he was bucking in the air. Then he started to beg. "Please, Jim," he breathed heavily.

"Ask me for it," Moriarty taunted, though his own voice waivered with anticipation.

A few seconds passed before Sherlock's need outweighed his desperation to have any sort of control. "Please fuck me, Jim Moriarty." And that was all it took. Sherlock heard him growl as he angrily tore off this clothes. It seemed like they couldn't come off any faster. In moments Moriarty was on him. Sherlock nearly shouted at the sudden feeling of human physical contact. The warmth was instantaneous, and he was afraid he was going to come just by having him so close.

Moriarty forcefully flipped him over. Their eyes met. Hungry, like a starving animal poised over a weakened prey. Chest heaving and muscles taut. This was why Sherlock replied to that text.

Jim leaned over Sherlock. He grabbed his wrist and had it cuffed to the bed post. He did the other then sat back on his haunches. Sherlock had never seen him so pleased. Sherlock lying on his back, arms secured above him, immobile. Lust dilating his pupils and speeding up his heart. Now Moriarty was slow. He was in control of his own savagery. He leaned parallel to Sherlock, chest and abdomen pressed together. "You are going to cry out my name," he hissed into Sherlock's neck. Chill bumps quickly raised and Sherlock let out a strangled whimper. "You are going to beg for your release. Only I can grant you it. Nothing is yours. Do you understand?" Sherlock nodded then gasped as Moriarty kissed and licked his neck. The warming caress quickly became animalistic as he bit into him. He did this all over Sherlock's trembling body. He moved to his clavicle, nipple, abdomen, inner thigh. Sherlock was bucking helplessly into Moriarty to the point that he painfully held Sherlock's hips down.

"Please," Sherlock would whisper. Each time he did this, he was only rewarded with growls or bites. His erection was becoming painful. He needed to be touched. His own wanking earlier only made it so much worse.

Suddenly Moriarty stopped his teasing licks and bites. He looked into Sherlock's blurry eyes. "Beg. Truly beg."

Defiance flashed across Sherlock's face, and he saw it. Moriarty's smile was almost manic. He tossed Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and pressed his cock right up against where Sherlock so desperately needed it. Sherlock cried out. "You don't want this?"

Sherlock squirmed. "Yes."

Moriarty laughed that mirthless laugh. "Then beg!" he ordered as he rocked his hips forward, teasing Sherlock's opening. Sherlock pressed back, but Jim would pull away. His control was impeccable, and Sherlock despised it.

"Please, please fuck me," Sherlock begged as he moved against him, desperate for the contact.

Moriarty produced a tube of lube from underneath a pillow. He lathered up his own cock swiftly then returned to his previous position. When the tip was at the edge of Sherlock, he could see the immense ecstasy the man felt. This was it. He was going to get what he had wanted so much.

Moriarty moved quicker than what was deemed comfortable. There was no warm up. But Sherlock knew his own need was growing exponentially. Moriarty rocked into him and both men moaned lowly. "Fuck," Jim hissed under his breath as he entered. The feeling of Moriarty inside of him was more than words could ever provide him. Sherlock groaned in agreement as they began to set a rhythm. The headboard of the bed hit the wall indecently as Moriarty began to move at his swift pace. He abruptly grabbed Sherlock's cock and began pumping at the same tempo. Sherlock's moans became louder and needier.

Sherlock could feel the build of his own climax nearing. "Jim…" he gasped.

"Yes, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked in an oddly conversational voice.

Sherlock shuddered, his abdomen tightening. "I'm about to…I mean… oh, God, Jim can I please come?"

The smile that nipped at the corner of the mastermind's lips had Sherlock fearing he was about to be denied. He didn't think he could hold off at this pace. "Oh come for me, Sherlock. Cause I am going to fill you. Oh…Sherlock I'm going to come so deep inside you."

Sherlock came first. His warm seed fell across his belly and Moriarty's hand as his body racked with the sudden climax. He bucked wildly and moaned without conscious. Jim fell soon after. He fucked hard inside of Sherlock as he did as he promised. His groans were deep and guttural as he claimed his possession. He dropped on top of Sherlock's sweat slick body when the last of his orgasm faded. They both heaved for air as their minds swam with chemicals.

Sherlock had never felt so alive, so enticed. This would be his addiction. Physical, hormonal drug addiction. His wrists hurt from the rough handcuffs, but he found he greatly enjoyed this feeling. Endorphins. He was at this psychopath's mercy, and he reveled in it.


End file.
